A Good Day
by InDiGo MaRcH
Summary: Three years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Neville literally stumbles into Hannah's life again. Lovebottom shippers will have their buttocks blown off.
1. To Be Alive

**Disclaimer: **Ask me if I own Harry Potter again, and I'll spank your face.

**A/N: **Neville/Hannah. Cos they're soul mates.

**:::**

**Chapter One  
>…To Be Alive<strong>

**:::**

Hannah let out a frustrated and weary sigh as she sank into one of the stools lining the bar of the Leaky Cauldron.

"One galleon, four sickles, six knuts," she said, clinking them gloomily onto the counter. "Uncle Tom, I hate this job."

Tom, in all his gummy walnut resembling glory, smiled grimly—yet toothily—at his niece.

"Tonight was a slow night, Hannah, every pub has 'em—"

"Not just tonight! It's been slow for weeks!"

"Diagon Alley 'as been empty, too."

"Not as empty as this place," she pointed out grumpily. In fact, the Hogwartian graduate could easily imagine tumbleweed comically rolling across the dark wood floor before them, lonely and forgotten.

"People feel safer when ther not out and about," Tom reminded her. "We're still in dark and dangerous times. Many o' You-Know-Who's followers still evade capture. Why d'you think the Aurors er working so hard?"

Hannah snorted, not wanting to agree with his point. She scooped her measly tips back into her palm and deposited them sadly into her apron's pocket next to her wand. "I'm going to bed," she then sighed, climbing heavily to her feet—

—only to jump in surprise as the door blasted open, accompanied by an angry crackle of thunder from the storm outside, with a jarring force that shook the windows in their rickety frames.

Quicker than a Firebolt, both Hannah and Tom had their wands out—only to slowly lower them as they found them to be pointed at a ragged looking man with a face so coated in crimson blood and oozing wounds he was hardly recognizable.

"Tom," the man rasped, stumbling away from the threshold. He tripped, exhausted and blinded by his pain, and fell into one of the tables, bringing it crashing down onto the floor on top of him.

"Uncle Tom!" Hannah gasped in horror, hurrying forward to assist the weakly stirring man. "Uncle Tom, it's _Neville!"_

**:::**

Neville opened his eyes, only to slam them shut again.

Irritably, he wondered who's inexplicably brilliant idea it was to open every window in this godforsaken room.

Slowly, he opened his eyes again, bringing a stiffly sore hand up to his heavily bandaged face to shield them.

The cheerfully yellow curtains swayed in the soft breeze that was wafting in through the window.

Neville checked himself and his surroundings curiously.

He most definitely was _not_ in the crappy flat he shared with Seamus and Dean: This room was much too clean and bright.

And this _bed_: It was much too soft and pleasant to be his frayed DA hammock that hung remorsefully in the corner of his previously mentioned malodorous apartment.

Neville lay back down against the feather-soft pillows, breathing in deeply. Whoever normally slept here smelt really, _really_ good. Like…honey. He liked honey.

He winced; He was now awake enough to register the fact that not only was his body one giant dull ache, but also that the skin beneath the tightly wrapped bandages was burning unpleasantly as he healed.

_Dittany_, _surely_, he thought sleepily.

He closed his eyes again, now appreciating the golden gleam behind his heavy eyelids and the cool breeze that played across his face sticky with Essence of Murtlap.

Today, he decided, was a good day to be alive.

As Neville drifted off to sleep again, the door to the room creaked open and Hannah backed in carrying a tray of food.

She had to admit it was more than odd to see him lying there, all shirtless and wrapped up. But not just odd, it was also painfully parallel to their last year at Hogwarts, something she didn't fancy remembering...for more than one reason.

She set the tray carefully down onto the nightstand beside the bed, glancing at Neville's face. Not for the first time since last night, she wondered what had happened to him.

Letting out a deep breath she hadn't realized she was holding, Hannah tapped her wand to the teapot that was resting on the tray, silencing it so its piercing whistle wouldn't wake him.

She looked at him again, and she couldn't help but think he looked kind of sweet and innocent just lying there, his eyes closed and his mind free from the terrors of whatever life he was running from. She reached out and brushed his hair from his face. Then she dropped her hand back to her side, her throat suddenly tight. She looked away from him and quietly left the room.

**:::**

"What do you think he's been up to, Uncle Tom?"

"Longbottom? Hell, if I know."

"He looks _awful_, though—he must be doing something dangerous! Or stupid. Or both," this statement was followed by a hard slap against what Neville suspected was the bar counter. "Oh, why does he always have to be the hero?" Hannah's voice demanded impatiently.

Neville felt immediately all warm and fuzzy inside. Hannah always did have a lovely voice.

"You're worried about 'im."

"He's half _dead_! Of course I'm worried about him!"

"He looks alright to me," Tom said, his eyes finding Neville, who was standing at the top of the stairs that lead down into the pub.

Hannah, who had her back to the stairs, plowed on angrily, "Well, he hasn't exactly been bleeding all over your bed covers, has he?" she growled, completely oblivious to Neville's presence as she glared at Tom, who busied himself with cleaning a few more Butterbeer mugs.

"He'll be _fine_, Hannah," Tom insisted, not quite able to conceal the grin spreading across his face.

"What are you _smiling_ at?" Hannah demanded, looking over her shoulder. Her face seemed to immediately drain of all color as Neville slowly walked down the stairs, an amused smirk evident on half the face that wasn't bandaged.

He stopped at the bottom, a bit of a dopey grin replacing the smirk. He couldn't quite remember the last time he had seen her, but she seemed to have become something of a "hot babe" since then.

"Hi," he said all charmingly.

"Hi," she replied, not quite smiling.

He lifted his slinged up arm. "Your handy work, I'm guessing?"

"Yes."

"Thanks."

"No problem."

Tom quietly excused himself and retreated through a back door.

Neither of them moved.

"Care to explain, then?" Hannah asked, unable to keep the concern out of her voice.

"What, this? This is nothing; you should see the other guy."

A predictable answer. Hannah pursed her lips and looked away from him again in stony silence.

"Ah, Hannah, come on!" he moaned, quickly crossing the pub to join her at the bar. "I swear, I've been worse off—"

"Don't _even_, Neville Longbottom," she snapped. "I know you have, probably more than anyone."

"Then why are you so mad?"

"Because _this?"_ she demanded, pushing on his chest to get him to back up some. "I don't want to _see_ this! I got enough of my fair share of seeing my friends hurt!"

"It's my _job_," he told her. "It's not an _easy_ one, I admit, but it's important."

"And staying in one piece isn't?" Hannah demanded, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "Getting hacked into a million little pieces doesn't matter, as long as you save the day, huh?"

"It's not like that," he insisted, trying to get her to look at him again. "Hannah, come on, don't be like this. I'm alive, aren't I?"

She remained stubbornly silent, glaring ahead at the racks of Firewhiskey lining the wall behind the bar.

Neville scoffed in disbelief. "_Hannah_, I can take care of myself!"

She quickly turned to glare pointedly at his bandaged face, arm, and chest.

"Why're you so worried, anyway?" he demanded, quickly losing his own patience. "As I recall, you're the one who wouldn't return any of my owls after…after everything that happened!"

Hannah swiped angrily at her abruptly brimming eyes, catching him off guard.

"Hannah, are you _crying_? Merlin's beard, what's wrong? What did I do? I'm sorry—"

"I don't want to talk about it—especially not with you!"

He let out a loud groan of frustration. "What is this _about_? It can't just be about me being an Auror."

"It's _not_!" she said with a sudden ferventness that surprised them both.

"Then _what_?" he asked softly.

"I don't know," she said irritably. "I don't _know_, okay? It's just…seeing you after all this time, like _this_…it's too much, Neville, I'm sorry."

He closed his eyes and sighed, turning away from her. "This isn't even the worst of it, Hannah."

She blinked at the abrupt change. "What? Neville, what is it?" she asked him as he propped his elbows up on the counter and rested his face in his hands wearily.

"I'm sorry," he said, "you're right to be worried about me—I was stupid, _really_ stupid."

She waited for him to go on, her brow creased.

"Last night," he continued slowly, "I was with Ron and Harry; we were tracking Rookwood."

"The Death Eater?"

He nodded once. "That's what we've been doing, the Aurors, tracking down Death Eaters who escaped after the Battle. We finally found him, almost had him—but then we were ambushed by a couple of rogue Dementors. Harry and Ron got held back, so I went after Rookwood myself."

He took a deep breath. "It was pretty brutal," he said, gesturing to himself, "if you couldn't already tell. He's got a few nasty tricks up his sleeve, Rookwood does. And I wasn't on top of things to begin with. I only just managed to get away." He met her eyes. "He's after me, Hannah. He was always one who didn't like leaving a job unfinished, and they're hunting us just as much as we're hunting them."

"So you're in danger," she realized, her expression blank.

He winced, avoiding her eyes. "Yes. I shouldn't have come here, I know that, but…it was the first place I thought of. I'll leave as soon as I can, I swear," he hastened to add.

"Don't be stupid," she said, standing up and heading for the door. "You're not going anywhere, Neville. I doubt Rookwood would think you'd come _here_, anyway. Besides, you're crazy if you think I'm letting you leave my sight in the condition you're in."

He watched her poke her head out the door, a slight smile on his face. When she turned back, she noticed it and glared again. "What?"

"Nothing," he said, ducking his head so she wouldn't see his grin. "I've missed you, you know that?"

"Oh, shut up," she said, half annoyed yet half pleased.

The door leading down to the cellar creaked open and Tom peered in at them. "Is it safe to come up now? Or are the two of you still macking?"

"Uncle _Tom!_" Hannah said with indignation, causing the old fart to cackle and duck back into the cellar.

Neville watched her run down after him, a growing smile present on his face. But as the door swung shut behind her, it slipped off, a worried frown replacing it. What had he inadvertently dragged them into?

**:::**

**E/N: Mehhh T.T First chapters suckkkk...Review if ya want.**


	2. To Be a Waitress

**A/N: I'm so stoked people like this :D Oh, and it's my birthday! *eats frozen yogurt***

**:::**

**Chapter Two  
>…To Be a Waitress<strong>

**:::**

"Neville!" Hannah hissed, shoving him back through the dark doorway. "I told you to stay out of sight!"

"I'm bored," he complained, looking past her shoulder and longingly towards the pleasantly crowded pub. "And it's been forever since I've had a Firewhiskey…"

"I'll bring one up to the room; now go! Before someone sees you!"

"Hannah, I've been in that room all day!"

"What if someone out there is in cahoots with Rookwood? Huh? Then he runs off to tell him where you are?"

"Did you seriously just use the word 'cahoots'?"

Hannah angrily pushed his laughing form down the hallway. "Go," she said sternly, jabbing her finger towards the stairs. "I mean it!"

"Yes, _ma'am_," he said in an abruptly deep and jokingly masculine voice as he lifted an impressed eyebrow at her. Her expression didn't waver for a second from stern caretaker, but her cheeks were suddenly burning much hotter than she'd care to admit as she watched him obediently ascend the stairs, only grimacing slightly at the exertion it put on his sore body.

After Neville's feet disappeared off the landing, Hannah hurried back out onto the floor, flexibly dodging around one of the more rowdy pubbers as he flew out of his chair, drunkenly quoting wrackspurt articles he had read in the _Quibbler_ just that morning; Hannah made a mental note to not serve him anymore Firewhiskey.

As opposed to last week, the Leaky Cauldron was so crowded Hannah hardly had any room to maneuver between tables on her way to bring drinks out from the bar.

It was definitely, in her opinion, a good day to be a waitress. Her apron pocket, charmed with a nifty extension charm taught to her by Hermione, was jingling satisfactorily with tenfold the coins than her measly tips from the last few nights. When the hammering for drinks mulled and she was given time to breathe, Hannah leaned against the counter behind the bar, wistfully drying a few Butterbeer mugs as she watched the chattering witches and wizards.

Her mind briefly turned to Neville brooding sullenly upstairs all by himself, but before she could girlishly think too much on how handsome he was despite his heavily bandaged face, the pub door swung open and two familiar faces appeared, set with a grimness that told Hannah exactly why Ron and Harry were here—not that she couldn't already have guessed.

"Harry!" she called in greeting, fixing a falsely bright smile on her face as she waved him over.

Her brow creased slightly as his eyes darted to her name tag and then quickly up to her face. "Hannah! You work here?" Harry asked her with some surprise as he dropped into an empty stool at the bar.

"The night shift, usually, yes," she replied, offering a slightly confused smile. "How are you? Harry?" She dropped her eyes to the mug she was still cleaning, her mind whirring at that indiscreet notion of unfamiliarity.

"Been better," Harry replied briskly, his tone definitely implying that it wasn't something he wished to discuss in such a public place. And being who he was didn't help his cause: as soon as he and Ron had walked in, conversation had dropped considerably and more and more people were openly staring in their direction.

"Ask her, then," Ron murmured, casually turning and resting his back against the bar as he surveyed the other customers a bit critically.

"Ask me what?" Hannah asked curiously, raising an eyebrow up at Harry, who accepted the mug of Butterbeer she offered him. As she slid one over to Ron, Harry asked the question she knew he would, "You seen Neville Longbottom around?"

She scrutinized them both. Harry and Ron were on the look-out, too.

Hannah found another dirty glass to clean, thinking the question over and wondering if she should tell him. She felt a flash of doubt. She should obviously tell Ron and Harry—they were there the night Neville had dueled with Rookwood…yet…something was holding her back.

Hannah looked up from the mug and into Harry's iconic green eyes, pursing her lips slightly. "No," she said slowly as she cleared her expression, still wondering why she had decided against telling them, "I haven't. Why?" she asked, her tone turning abruptly worried. Her sudden acting skill surprised her.

Harry's eyes narrowed a fraction of a bit behind his glasses as he surveyed her closely, making Hannah feel all the more uneasy. She kept his gaze, however, though her throat ran a bit dry with discomfort.

"He hasn't been to the office in a few days," Harry said smoothly, finally dropping his eyes back to his Butterbeer. He abruptly got to his feet, depositing a golden galleon onto the bar, and Ron looked towards them again, pulling his own mug of Butterbeer away from his lips. "Let us know if he stops by."

"I will definitely do that," Hannah told him, watching Ron delicately wipe the cream off his upper lip with a handkerchief, a slight frown on her face. Ron then nodded in farewell to her, his expression incriminatingly serious as he returned the hankie to his pocket.

"Goodbye—" Harry's eyes darted again to her nametag, "—Hannah."

With her heart suddenly thudding painfully against her ribs, Hannah watched the pair cross the pub again. Once the door had swung shut behind Ron and the usual babble of conversation had resumed, Hannah let out a huge breath of air, sagging weakly against the counter behind her, feeling numb all over.

Hannah didn't know Harry and Ron personally, but she knew them well enough to know that Ron Weasley would _never_ use a dainty little handkerchief to dab the corners of his mouth, and Harry Potter at _least_ knew her name. Whoever those two men were, they were after Neville, and if she had told them he was upstairs…. She shuddered with horror at the thought, feeling slightly sick to her stomach.

"Was that Potter?" Tom asked curiously, setting a tub of dirty dishes on top of the bar and peering at her clutching a hand over her mouth, concern evident on his face.

"No," she told him hoarsely, slowly lowering her hand and hastily shaking her head. "That was _not_ Harry Potter."

**:::**

**E/N: Cliff hanger! :P Legit didn't plan on having a Potter imposter until I was halfway done with this short-ish chappie. Eh. Gives the plot a more exciting twist! Review? :) It **_**is**_** my birthday, after all… (;**


	3. To Save a Friend

**A/N: Twists are fun, right? :3**

**:::**

**Chapter Three  
>…To Save a Friend<strong>

**:::**

Neville pushed his mug back and forth across the small table, switching it from one hand to the other restlessly.

"You're sure?" he asked Hannah, his voice quiet and beseeching.

"Absolutely," she replied fervently, watching his cup's steady progress from each hand. "Ron's known for his extreme lack of manners, and Harry definitely knows my name, right?"

Neville nodded once, and his eyes darted up from the table to meet hers. "This is bad, Hannah, really bad."

"You don't say," she retorted hotly, a knowing feeling creeping up her spine. "And don't even _think_ about it, Nev, _not_ in your current condition."

"I'm mostly healed," he murmured stubbornly. But even as he said it and pointedly tried to straighten up in his chair, he winced in pain.

Hannah raised an eyebrow. "You don't even know where they _are_."

"They're in trouble, though!" he exploded, so frustrated he slopped some of the Firewhiskey over the lip of his mug and onto the table on its way to his left hand.

"Then I'll contact the other, more _capable,_ Aurors!"

"No," Neville said, shaking his head angrily, "no, I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why _not_?" she demanded, infuriated by the action.

Neville took a steadying breath as an unpleasantly frigid feeling settled over them. "Hannah," he said in what he hoped was a calming tone, "it's…complicated."

She snorted. "Complicated? That's the _best_ you can come up with, Neville Longbottom? It's _complicated_, so I wouldn't understand—is that it?"

"No!" he objected. "That's not it at all! I just…it's just a feeling I have."

"About what? The Department?"

"_Yes_," he said in a long relenting breath. "Before Harry, Ron, and I went out on the field after Rookwood—I dunno—it was…something was off, about…"

"About…?" she forced him to look at her. "About what, Neville? About who?" she urged, automatically reaching across the table to touch his arm imploringly.

He took a deep breath, glancing into her eyes. "About Zabini—Blaise Zabini."

Her brow creased as he looked away. "Zabini's an Auror?"

"I was surprised too, at first, believe me," Neville said, his own brow creased as he stared sullenly into his cup. "But he's one hell of an Auror, let me tell you. Naturally, there was a lot of questioning about his loyalties to the Ministry and the Department back during training—no one's very trusting of past Slytherins these days, after all, especially not friends of the Malfoys—but he was obviously cleared and flew through the course with flying colors." Neville cleared his throat abruptly, clutching his goblet tightly as he continued, "He's good—almost as good as Harry, probably better than me. Anyway, we've worked together, trained together, for three years, haven't had any problems."

"But now…?" Hannah pressed, concerned.

"Like I said, something's been off," Neville muttered, his expression clouding over again, "for the past few weeks he's been slipping up. He's been acting odd in the office, been losing a lot of weight…" Neville brought a hand up to his face and rubbed the side that wasn't covered in bandages and gauge. "We thought he was sick, but now with all this happening, I'm beginning to wonder if he's a player in this game with Rookwood…"

"You think he knows where Harry and Ron are?"

"I think he knows where Harry and Ron are," Neville confirmed with a grim nod. "It would make sense…Rookwood obviously knew we'd be coming after him, there's no way those Dementors were just conveniently there in the right place at the right time."

"Or the _wrong_ place at the _wrong_ time," Hannah agreed seriously, her expression sullen. "Neville, if Zabini _is_ a mole—"

Neville nodded. "Then it's safe to assume the Department's every move is being paralleled by the Death Eaters."

**:::**

"Zabini!"

The young Auror stopped dead in his tracks down the corridor, before slowly turning to poke his head around the makeshift wall separating the Auror's office cubicles.

"Yes, sir?"

Victor Savage fixed him with his characteristic shrewd gaze, making the young Auror squirm with discomfort as he watched the Head of the Office lace his fingers together behind his head and lean back in his chair, propping his feet up on his desk.

"Any word from Potter and Weasley?"

"Yes, sir," Blaise reported at once. "They're still out tracking Rookwood, said they're pinpointing his location—"

"What about Longbottom?" Savage cut across him roughly. "He still with them?"

Out of the old Auror's sight, Blaise began to clench and unclench his fists. "Ah, yes, last I heard."

"Last you _heard_? What's that supposed to mean, Zabini—_last_ you _heard_?"

"Potter's owl wasn't specific, sir—I'm, ah, I'm assuming Longbottom's still with them."

Victor's eyes narrowed. "Hmph." His feet dropped down to the floor and he pushed his chair out of his cubicle. "_Proudfoot!"_ he shouted over the chatter of the Aurors, "_Dammit_, man, where are you?"

The old Auror pulled himself from his chair and shoved it back into his cubicle before stalking down the crowded hallway in search of his field partner. Blaise swiftly turned on heel and darted out of Savage's workspace and moved in the opposite direction, towards the door leading out onto the main floor.

Nodding at the various DMLE workers who called to him in greeting as he hurried down the corridor away from the Auror office, Blaise swiftly made his way to the lifts.

"Zabini."

"Weasley."

Percy sniffed pointedly as the lift doors clanged shut behind him and the box jerked, setting off on its way to the Atrium.

"And where are you off to?" Percy asked him as a cool silence settled awkwardly over the lift.

"It's my break," Blaise replied briskly, his hands clasped tightly together behind his back.

Percy busied himself importantly with his clipboard. "Ah. I'm on my way from Mr. Shacklebot's office. Official ministry business. You know how it is."

Blaise grunted, but didn't supply any sort of plausible reply.

Percy peered at him. "Have you lost weight?"

Blaise openly stared at him, his expression disbelieving.

"Well," Percy puffed up, affronted, "you look thinner! Are you sick?"

Luckily for Blaise, the grille doors opened and he was able to quickly dive out and hurry towards the floo gates without answering.

Quickly exiting the men's bathroom behind a wizard who was hastily stuffing his wizard hat into his pocket, Blaise made his way quickly towards the disapparation point, steering clear of the milling Londoners making their way to and from work.

"You're late."

"I'm sorry," Blaise replied quickly, breathless from his speedy flight from the Ministry as he clutched at his side. He collapsed into the booth across from the pock-marked and unwashed figure of Augustus Rookwood. "Savage kept me—"

Rookwood snarled at him to be quiet. Blaise fell abruptly silent, watching the Death Eater warily, his hands shaking slightly beneath the pub table.

Rookwood ignored him as he cast an eye around the crowded and poorly lit tavern. "Disgusting creatures, Muggles," he murmured to himself as he watched a suggestively dressed waitress make her way around the bar.

Blaise swallowed the hard lump in his throat with some difficultly. "About our deal, Rookwood—"

The Death Eater's eyes flashed as they returned to the young Auror's face. "Your little girlfriend will remain in one piece if you continue doing as you're told, Zabini," he growled, his dirty fingernails tapping threateningly against the table.

Blaise glowered as his temper flared. "I gave you Potter! I gave you Weasley—I even gave you Longbottom—"

"Longbottom got away!" the Death Eater snapped furiously, slamming his fist down against the table. A few pubbers looked their way in alarm, but a furious glare from Rookwood quickly diverted their attention. "I'll deal with Potter and Weasley—but I want Longbottom's _head!"_

"What's so special about Longbottom?" Blaise demanded in a furious voice of his own, his surprise of learning about Neville's escape dispelling instantly. "Potter's the _Chosen One—_what's Longbottom to you?"

"I don't like leaving a job unfinished," Rookwood spat, his eyes narrowing. Yet something in his voice told Blaise that wasn't the only reason. "Now where is he, Zabini? If you want your little—"

"I don't know _where_ Longbottom is," Blaise insisted, instantly on the alert once more at the mention of his friend. "You can't hurt her if I don't _know!_ He hasn't been back to the office—"

"You better find him and bring him to me before he gets to Savage," Rookwood hissed. "Longbottom will ruin everything! I have enough Aurors on my trail as it is. If they learn about Potter's capture there will be Hell to pay—for you _and_ Parkinson!"

Blaise chilled. "Alright—_alright_. I'll find him, I'll ask around! Just don't _hurt_ her—"

"Get on the Fringe, Zabini. Longbottom's hiding out somewhere. I've already had Lestrange and Avery out under the guise of Potter and Weasley, but their results were unsatisfactory."

The abrupt switch to cultured aristocrat surprised the young Slytherin, but Blaise kept Rookwood's gaze evenly, though his heart continued to pound painfully against his ribcage.

"I'll find him, Rookwood," he promised, swallowing with difficultly under the Death Eater's hot gaze. "I'll find Neville Longbottom."

Rookwood nodded a blunt dismissal and Blaise extracted himself from the booth. As he walked swiftly for the tavern's exit, fresh guilt settled over his heart: Despite their unsavory pasts, he had grown close with the three former Gryffindors—had grown to love his position within the Ministry, fighting criminals alongside them; selling them out like he was, to Augustus Rookwood, a former Death Eater who was proving over and over again to be just as ruthless as Voldemort's most devoted supporters from the War, was a terrible burden on his young shoulders.

His thoughts turned to Pansy Parkinson, his oldest friend, who had been cruelly abducted by the Death Eater to be used as leverage against him. Pansy had waited long enough: it was a good day to save a friend.

**:::**

**E/N: Confession: I have no idea where this is going. Eeep O.o**


	4. To Come Up with a Title for this Chapter

**A/N: **Okay, guys, I'm gonna take a minute and complain to you about how pathetic I am. I am, legitimately, _incredibly_ lazy. For real. Even when I totally dig a fanfic idea like this one, I need a LOT of encouragement to actually write it. And it's a ton of work! So, if you don't mind, drop me a review :3 They give me warm fuzzies! Oh…and to further the point of my laziness, I'm dropping the "It was a good day to, blah blah" stuff, cos it's hard to think of clever ones to discreetly drop into the chapter. Sorreh.

**:::**

**Chapter Four  
>…to Come Up With a Title for this Chapter<strong>

**:::**

Hermione Granger was bored.

Yes, _the_ Hermione Granger: Hero of the Second Wizarding War, brains of the Golden Trio, and current girlfriend of Ron Weasley (who, let's be honest, is a tad bit out of her league).

But despite her immense celebrity status, top job in the Magical Law Enforcement, and esteemed Weasley-to-Be status, the young Hogwartian graduate (*ahem*, _with_ top NEWT-marks, just so we're all clear on that) was bored completely out of her mind, sitting all alone in her much too quiet office cubicle on the second floor of the Ministry of Magic.

She checked her watch for the twelfth time (yes, she counted) since getting on her lunch break.

Where, in the name of Merlin's liver spotted bald spot, was Ron? He always conveniently strolled down the hall to eat all her food at this specific time of the work day.

She rolled her chair out into the hallway and looked left, then right, but when she saw no sign of red haired Weasliness anywhere in her range of keen sight, she rolled back into her cubicle and huffed impatiently, drumming her fingers peevishly upon her wood work desk.

"Honestly," she muttered grumpily, impatiently pushing scrolls of parchment out of her way as she set about unrolling the brown paper bag she carried her lunch in.

"_Pssst_! Granger!"

Hermione jumped at the unexpected and urgent whisper and squirted mustard all over her lap, missing the baloney lying in wait on the bread she held in one hand.

"Zabini!" she said with surprise, not even registering the mustard staining her brand spanking new work robes to its nonexistent heart's content. "What in Merlin's most saggy—"

"For Salazar's sake, Granger, there's no time for ancient wizard profanities pertaining to old man parts! Over here!" and without further ado, the handsome black young man wheeled her out of her cubicle and swiftly down the hall in her chair. Shocked by this sudden turn of events, Hermione accidentally squashed her half made sandwich in her tightly clenched fist, pulling her legs up so the hem of her long robes didn't get caught under the wheels of her chair.

"What are you _doing_, Zabini!" she asked in alarm as they skirted around a corner, nearly barreling over an old witch carrying a considerably large and precarious pile of folders in her arms. "Sorry!" she called over her shoulder at the dumpy and red-faced old woman who shook her fist angrily at the two young people as they rocketed down the corridor. "Slooow dooown!" Hermione cried as Blaise bustled her chair all around the second level of the Ministry, in search of something it seemed. Hermione started to spin on the seat and become immensely dizzy when all of a sudden Zabini brought her to an abrupt stop that nearly projected her onto the floor.

"What the _devil—",_ she began angrily, clutching her head and looking winded.

Blaise shushed her and quite suddenly dumped her from her chair and into a dark broom closet.

Hermione, who had had quite enough with this crazed behavior, jumped up and drew her wand, jabbing it threateningly to his chest.

"_Lumos!"_ she hissed into the dark closet. With its familiar whistle, her wand lit up brightly, and Blaise shielded his eyes from it.

"Calm down, Granger! I just need to talk!"

"And you had to kidnap me from my office in order to do so?" she demanded, her eyes flashing as her hair seemed to billow out from her as if it were charged with furious electricity. She looked quite scary in the blinding light of her wand.

"I can't be overheard! No one can see!" he insisted, his voice border-lining desperation. "Please, Granger, I'm begging you!"

Despite the bizarreness of seeing her old schoolmate—a Slytherin, of all people—begging and pleading with her in this dark closet, Hermione kept her cool intellect and slowly lowered her wand from where it had come to point at his face.

"Alright," she said, her voice adopting its usual no-nonsense tone, "what is it? What's wrong? And give me some elbow room! Gees!"

Blaise took an obliging step back, looking nervously at the closed door as he did so. Hermione's eyebrows drew together suspiciously: something seriously _was_ wrong!

"It's…" Blaise began, looking frustrated as he searched for the right words. He sighed deeply, his expression tightening. "Look, Granger," he began again, his words coming out in a rush, "I'm in trouble—we're all in trouble. Me, the Department, Harry and Ron—"

As soon as the names of her best friends left his mouth, Hermione was wheeling around and snapping her wand back up to his face. "What's wrong with them?" she demanded sharply, her hand flying out of nowhere and seizing a fistful of his shirt. Her eyes were blazing as she slammed him against the wall of the closet, causing the shelves above them to shake—a bottle of cleaning solution smashed open on the floor, flooding over their shoes. Neither paid attention to it. "Why are they in trouble? Tell me, Zabini!"

She stabbed her wand into his cheek angrily as he merely stared down at her and spluttered in surprise, caught completely off guard by her assault.

"Granger!" he gasped, seizing the wrist connected to the hand that was pinning him to the cold stone wall. "Granger—calm down and I'll tell you!"

Hermione blinked rapidly, as if just registering what she had done. "Oh," she said, a bit surprised as she released him. He relaxed now that he was out of her death grip, and watched her warily as she looked down at the sticky cleaning solution they were currently standing in. "Great," she muttered irritably, "these are my good shoes!"

Zabini cleared his throat awkwardly, effectively drawing her furious attention back to him.

"As I was _saying_, before you so rudely interrupted me, the Department is in trouble—perhaps even the entire Ministry!"

"Why?" she demanded impatiently. "Just get to the point already!"

"Augustus Rookwood," Blaise informed her coolly. "He's on the move—been on the move for months! His goals pertain to killing off all those who played a vital role in taking down You-Know-Who in the Battle of Hogwarts!"

Hermione stared at him, shocked, her eyes wide and disbelieving. "No!" she moaned, turning from him and pacing with difficulty in the small closet. "No, no, _no!_ Not after everything we went through—not after all that's happened!" She snarled angrily, pissed beyond anything else that even after these years, they were still fighting Voldemort's memory.

Blaise's expression, his voice—everything about his countenance, was grim as he continued, "Harry, Ron, and Neville went out tracking him two days ago. None of them came back—"

Hermione looked at him sharply. "And how do you know they're in trouble, and not dead?" her throat tightened at the thought.

"This is why I need your help," Blaise told her with a quiet surge of self-resentment. "I…I told Rookwood where they'd be. He captured them—"

Hermione, if at all possible, became even more furious. "You betrayed them!" she realized, her tone scathing. She tightened the grip on her wand. "You betrayed them, and now they're in the hands of a psychotic madman! Keep talking, Zabini, or I'll curse you right here, _right now!"_

"They've got Pansy!" Blaise hurried to say, and his voice cracked desperately. "He's got Pansy, and he'll kill her!" he slammed his eyes shut, and turned his face from her. "I shouldn't have told you, I shouldn't have told you any of this!" he realized, horror etched into every word he said. "They'll know—they'll kill her!"

Hermione's throat ran abruptly dry, and her grip around her wand relaxed as she finally understood the young Auror's reasons of betrayal—not that she cared much for Pansy, at all, but it was at least understandable.

"Alright," Hermione said, scrambling for control over the situation, "_alright_—I'll help you! What's going on? I'm assuming Rookwood is still ordering you about?"

"Yes," Blaise said in a slightly restrained tone as he began to recompose himself. He cleared his throat sharply, and became serious. "He wants Neville Longbottom."

Though she was surprised, Hermione kept it in check and continued in full stride. "Neville got away then? During the attack?"

"According to Rookwood," Blaise confirmed with a curt nod. "He wants him found and brought to him. I give him Neville, and he'll give me Pansy."

"What does he want with Neville?" Hermione asked, her brow creased as she thought over this.

"He said he doesn't like leaving a job unfinished," Blaise reported gravely, "but I don't think that's the only reason." The young Auror cautiously met her eyes. "He said he'd deal with Harry and Ron."

"Then we haven't much time," Hermione agreed. "Any idea where Neville could be?"

Blaise looked surprised. "You think we should go with the switch?"

"I think we should make it _appear_ as if we're going with the switch," Hermione said pointedly, a wryly ghost of a smile appearing on her face. "But first things first, Zabini—find Neville Longbottom."

**:::**

Neville was hunched over the bar of the Leaky, his arms folded and his chin resting on them as he watched Hannah finish cleaning up for the night.

"Did you always know you'd work here?" he asked her as she wiped down the counter.

Hannah paused to smile slightly at him. "I don't really have much of a choice."

"Why not?"

"Uncle Tom has no children, and I'm his only niece. The Leaky's been in our family for ages, so selling it is out of the question," she dropped her gaze from his, her smile widening a bit as she focused on her cleaning again. "This place is like home, I'm happy here."

She looked up again, their eyes met: Another charged moment, a frozen stare. Hannah bit her lip, and Neville tracked the movement.

Really, it was simple. All he had to do was lean over the counter and kiss her to give her mouth something else to do.

In fact, that was his sole intention, but Hannah shook her head slightly and broke the spell by taking a step back and crossing her arms tightly over her chest, as if protecting herself from his feelings.

"I'm sorry."

Neville leaned back onto his bar stool, feeling shot down. He couldn't meet her eyes. "Me too," he said in a gravelly voice. He cleared his throat of his suddenly rough voice and became interested in the glistening bar top. Hannah retrieved her rag from the counter and deliberately moved on to the clean the tables, leaving him to stew over his confused mix of emotions at the bar.

This whole time Hannah had been good to him, great, actually—but every chance, every moment that presented itself, like just now, that could expand their boundaries of friendship into something more, something he'd gladly welcome, she shut him out. Neville didn't understand it. He and Hannah had been friends for longer than he could remember, and the attraction between the two of them was undeniable—why had she built up this wall between them?

He turned his chair to watch her. Since waking up after his hellish duel with Rookwood and finding her there before his eyes, he hadn't stopped thinking about her. Where _had_ she gone after the War? She was there, and then she wasn't.

"Luna came by today," Hannah suddenly said, her voice laced with something he couldn't quite decipher. He kept his eyes on her as she made her way back around the bar. "Around lunch time."

Neville cleared his throat again, his brow creasing. "Why are you telling me this?"

Hannah's expression was coolly indifferent as she surveyed him. She braced her hands against the counter and narrowed her eyes at him. "She asked if I had seen you around."

Neville offered her a small smile. "Do you think she's in cahoots with Rookwood, too?"

Hannah didn't return his smile. "Luna coming around has nothing to do with Rookwood."

"It doesn't? Then what does it matter if she comes around the Leaky asking for me?"

Hannah scoffed angrily at him and picked up her discarded rag once again. "I would think you'd have at least informed your girlfriend of what's happened to you."

Neville's brow furrowed even deeper at this statement. "Hannah, Luna and I broke it off months ago."

Hannah's expression was the equivalent of someone's who had just been knocked over the head with a beater's bat. "What? When? Why?"

Neville lifted an eyebrow at this sudden change of attitude, and lifted the other as she leaned across the counter to stare intently into his face.

"Last June," he answered cautiously. "I was at the height of my Auror training, and she was setting off on some Crumple-Horned Snorkack hunt with her father and some bloke called Rolf—"

Hannah quite unexpectedly launched herself over the counter and knocked him right to the floor, where they landed with a painful _thud_! Before Neville even knew what was going on, she had kissed him. The slayer of Nagini laid there, stunned, for a split second, before returning the kiss quite passionately.

A slightly startled "Oh, my!" sounded from the door what felt to Neville like several blissful years later, and though he was reluctant to end the kiss, Hannah rolled off of him with a mortified squeak.

"Hermione!" she gasped, quite out of breath and sounding flabbergasted and thoroughly alarmed. From his position on the floorboards, Neville propped himself up on his elbows and looked over his shoulder at Hermione and Blaise Zabini, who were ogling the pair from the threshold.

"Well, I found Neville," Blaise muttered to Hermione out of the corner of his mouth.

"If this is a bad time," she blustered, almost as red in the face as Hannah as she took in Neville's appearance and disheveled hair.

Neville cleared his throat professionally and attempted to brush off the situation, a flash of warning presenting itself as he looked at Zabini. "What are you doing here?" he asked suspiciously.

"I could ask you the same," his fellow Auror said, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable.

Hannah was hiding behind her hands, horrified at being caught in such a highly anticipated moment of passion—on the floor of a bar, no less.

Neville nonchalantly picked himself gingerly off the floor, barely wincing at the exertion the pervious activities had tolled on him. "Hermione? Care to explain?"

"Oh, um, yes," she said, still looking awkward. "Perhaps we should sit down?"

"Somewhere a bit more secluded," Blaise suggested. Hermione nodded.

"Yes, somewhere private."

Hannah blushed fiercely again and muttered at them to follow her up the stairs and to her flat above the pub.

Once everyone was settled at the table, and had awkwardly accepted bottles of Firewhiskey, Hermione spoke again, "I don't doubt we all know what's going on with Rookwood."

"I was wondering when you'd get dragged into this," Neville commented, sloshing the contents of his drink around in the bottle. He glanced a bit angrily at Blaise. "I just didn't expect it to be with him."

"Nev, you don't understand," Hermione said patiently. "Blaise is just as much in this as you are. Rookwood's holding Pansy hostage along with Ron and Harry. Now," she took a deep breath and looked closely at her fellow Gryffindor, "have you _any_ idea, Neville, why Rookwood _specifically_ wants to kill you?"

"Nooo_p_e."

"Hm," Hermione leaned back in her chair and looked at three of them. "Well, in order to save Pansy, and in turn Harry and Ron, we're gonna have to give you to him. Sorry."

"Wha?" he blinked at her, while Hannah slapped an angry hand against the table with an appalled, "Absolutely not!"

"Calm down, I have a plan!" Hermione snapped consolingly. "And it's simple. Listen up…"

**:::**

**E/N: **Sorry for the lame-ish end. And remember: WARM FUZZIES! If ya wanna know what happens :3 And don't be hatin. Be reviewin. Indy outieee! …don't judge me! (Oh, and I was too lazy to do last minute editing. Meh)


	5. To Get Answers

**A/N: **Anybody read the book _Divergent_, yet? Well, you should. And be warned: I'm too lazy to go back and edit my chapters, especially if I had a hard time writing them. So kindly ignore the noob mistakes :P

**:::**

**Chapter Five  
>…to Get Answers<strong>

**:::**

Harry Potter woke up to the sound of his best mate, Ron Weasley, screaming bloody murder.

Groaning, the Beasty-Dude-Who-Ended-the-Bloodiest-War-Of-All-Time sat up, rubbing his head. When he took away his hand, it was moist with blood.

"Brilliant," he grumbled, experimentally prodding the wound and wincing at the slight touch.

He then looked around. Ron was still screaming, but he was just out of sight. Wherever they were—a basement, maybe?—the two young men were separated by a tall brick wall.

"Ron?" he shouted, trying to be heard over the screaming. His heart started to pound terribly within his ribcage as his body began to wake up. "RON! Where are you? What's happening?"

"It's all _gone!"_ Ron sobbed. "All of it, Harry!"

Relief flooded through him. Whatever was the matter, at least Ron wasn't being crucio'd, tortured, and/or raped.

"What's all gone, Ron?" Harry asked, pulling himself from the middle of the floor and closer to the wall separating them. His ankles were encased in rusty shackles that jangled unpleasantly as they slid across the concrete. Lovely "And where the heck are we?"

Ron merely continued to moan in horror. "All of it…I look terrible!"

Harry looked down at his grimy hands and dirty clothes speckled with what he now suspected was his own blood. "I don't look so hot either, Ron."

"Yeah, but are you _bald_?"

Harry's hands flew up to his head in alarm, but all of his hair was still there and as bushy and unmanageable as ever, if not a bit matted and crusty with dried blood.

"Are _you?"_ Harry asked, his voice cracking dryly. He smacked his lips together. He was parched.

"YES! Oh, Godric, they took all my hair!"

"Don't be such a girl, Ron," Harry snapped, though inwardly, he was ecstatic over the fact that he wasn't the bald one.

"My _hair_! They took my frikkin _hair_, Harry!"

Harry shook his full head of hair and pulled himself away from the wall to get a better look around their prison.

Now that his eyes had adjusted to the room's poor lighting, he established that _yes_; they were indeed in someone's morbid and stinky basement. It was little comfort to him to realize it wasn't the Malfoy's cellar. If it _had_ been, he might have known what they were up against, but it seemed they were playing someone else's diabolical game of chess now, and he didn't know who was directing the pieces.

"Alright, Ron, calm down," Harry said, narrowing his eyes as he tried to peer into the surrounding darkness. "We need to focus on getting out of here."

Thankfully, Ron decided he was right, and that they had more pressing matters at hand than his recently shaved head.

"Where are you?" the Weasley asked. "To my left or right?"

"Right, I think. This wall's between us."

Harry could hear Ron's own chains scraping loudly against the floor as he moved around.

"There are no bars keeping us in here, just these bloody chains," Ron growled. "I'll see how far they stretch…"

His words were followed by more movement, and a moment later he came into view, only his back and right side visible to Harry, who had to duck his head to suppress his laughter.

A bald Ron was enough to make _anyone_ nearly pee their pants.

"I can't go any farther," Ron called to him, tugging on the chains at his feet. "So we stretch to nearly the middle of the floor. Get over here, and don't laugh at me!"

It was even worse up close, Harry decided, and he failed at keeping a straight face.

"Sorry, mate, but you look like a scrawny Uncle Fester."

"Who's that?"

"Er, never mind," Harry said quickly as Ron's ginger eyebrows locked together suspiciously. The two young men sat down on the floor, their chained feet pointing towards their different cells.

"So now what?" Ron asked, running a hand remorsefully over his smooth head.

Harry forced himself not to watch, since he'd probably laugh again. "Now we figure out how to get out of here."

Ron snorted. "You see a way out?"

"No," Harry replied, "but there's gotta be something we can work with to help us out."

Before Ron could respond, another groan echoed around the basement. Harry looked up in alarm, and Ron craned his neck to look over his shoulder behind them.

"Who's there?" he hissed suspiciously.

There was a dry cough, then the rattling of chains, followed by the pale face and sickly frail body of Pansy Parkinson as she shuffled into the dim light of the single bulb hanging from the ceiling above them.

Harry's eyebrows shot up in stunned disbelief as she looked down at them through sunken eyes.

"_Pansy_?" Ron spluttered in shock. "What the bloody _he—"_

"You look ridiculous," she told Ron in a rough voice, who flushed and cradled his bald head in his hands.

She sat down cross-legged behind them, her expression void of any kind of emotion. "Trying to escape is useless. I've searched this basement high and low, and there's only one way out, and that's through the door leading upstairs. And trust me, you don't want to go through it. Not without a wand, anyway."

Harry rolled over onto his stomach, his feet still pointed towards his cell so he could look into her face with evident concern. His compassion was admirable. "Where are we, Pansy?" he probed gently. "What's going on?"

She stared blankly at him through wide eyes. Then she blinked once and began to scoot backwards, towards the dark wall she had come from.

"Wait!" he shouted desperately. "_Come on!_ Pansy!"

She paused, regarding him stoically. "They'll hurt me again if I talk to you."

"Who? Who, Pansy? Who will hurt you?"

But she shook her head frantically and seemed to melt back into the shadows. Harry could vaguely make out her shape, but straining his eyes against the darkness was increasing the already pounding pain in his head. With a disappointed sigh, he shook his head and looked down at the floor.

"Well, now what?" Ron asked him. "Dour Dora back there sure isn't gonna help us."

"I don't know, Ron," he said, his brow creasing with worry. "I don't know."

**:::**

Somewhere in the distance, tucked around their range of sight, a door creaked open, opening up a world of bright light that fell across the moldy stone floor of the basement. A small shadow then fell across that as someone descended a few small steps. The door closed and it was dark again.

Harry's eyes were narrow slits as he feigned exhausted sleep; a wand was lit with a hushed, _"Lumos!"_, illuminating the pale, slightly frightened face of a woman with a halo of fair hair and a splash of faint freckles across her nose and cheeks. She held her wand with one hand and carried a small basket with the other.

"Pansy?" she whispered, peering over in the direction Harry had seen the young woman retreat to nearly an hour before.

Silently, Harry blindly fumbled for something in his pocket, his heart leaping up into his throat, hoping desperately that what he was seeking was still there.

"Pansy?"

The fair-haired woman set down the basket and crept towards the dark wall Pansy was lying against. Harry heard a faint answering whimper as his fingers brushed against the smooth cool metal of a galleon.

He slowly slid it out of his pocket and pinched it.

A few breathless moments later it seared with heat as Ron replied.

Gritting his teeth, Harry pulled himself to his feet, careful to keep his chains from rattling as he took a cautious step forward.

The woman was crouching over Pansy's cowering body, her wand still held high to cast light over her. Harry hesitated; she was holding a rag to Pansy's head, obviously tending to her wounds as she cooed softly, comforting the terrified young woman.

Ron appeared around the edge of the wall separating them, his bald head gleaming pathetically in the bright light of the lit wand. He caught Harry's sideways glance and lifted his eyebrows questioningly.

Harry brought a finger up to his lips.

Wait.

"I brought you some food," the woman's whisper carried over to them. "And some bandages to patch you up right."

Pansy didn't reply, keeping her shuddering back to the woman as she faced the damp wall before her.

The woman placed a hand on Pansy's shoulder. "I'm going to clean your wounds. Don't be frightened."

She turned to retrieve the basket but froze as her eyes fell onto Harry's shoes. They slowly roamed up his legs, up his torso, before meeting his stare. She swallowed with difficulty, her eyes widening with fright as they jumped between Harry's face and Ron's.

Ron lunged towards her, but his chains yanked him right off his feet. He smacked face first into the floor, giving the woman time to scrambled backwards and open her mouth to scream.

"No! Wait! Please don't!" Harry said hastily, taking a step back and holding up his arms to show her he meant no harm. "Ron," he hissed angrily, shooting him a look as he picked himself gingerly up off the floor.

"Wha?" the ginger asked thickly, pinching the bridge of his nose irritably.

"What do you want?" the woman demanded, backing up towards Pansy and out of their reach.

Ron shot her a filthy glare. "Well, I'd like my hair back, thanks."

She ignored him, and kept her gaze on Harry, whose brow furrowed. "Where are we?" he asked cautiously. "Who's in charge?"

"I can't tell you that," she said at once, looking nervously towards the door.

"Harry, she's one of them! She's not gonna tell us anything! Just take her wand!"

The woman clutched her wand tightly as she pointed it between Harry and Ron in alarm. "Just try it! _Try it_!"

Harry kept his hands up as he crouched down, looking at her face imploringly. "I'm not going to take your wand. I just want answers."

"I don't know anything!" she insisted angrily. She flicked her wand and Harry flinched back, but she had merely pulled the basket over towards her. "I'm only allowed down here to treat Ms. Parkinson!"

"Surely you know who's doing this to her?" Harry asked.

Judging by the second of hesitation present in her expression, she did. Harry leaned towards her, his eyes pleading behind his glasses. "You're just following orders, I understand. What's your name? Are you being threatened?"

"Of course I'm not being threatened!" she snapped in a quivering voice, her wand snapping up to his face in warning as he leaned over the middle of the floor. "And who I am is none of your concern!"

"_Harry,"_ Ron snarled. "This is no time to be a gentleman—_take her bloody wand!"_

Harry shot him another angry look, while the woman brought her wand to Ron's face, her eyes wide.

"Oh, put it down," he growled, fixing her with a glare. "If you were going to curse me, you'd of done it by now!"

Slowly, she lowered her wand, still regarding him warily. She glanced back at Harry, before quickly lowering her gaze back to Pansy, who had gone completely silent.

"Please," the woman whispered tightly, lifting bandages and bottles of salve from her basket, "just leave me—"

She suddenly gasped, stiffening in her crouch as her eyes widened. Harry moved forward, surprised, but stopped as she keeled forward and slumped unmoving upon the floor, revealing Pansy who was crouched behind her, her fist clenched and still suspended in mid-air from where she had struck the distracted woman.

The three former classmates stared at each other, stunned, waiting to see who made the next move.

Slowly, cautiously, Harry stretched forth his hand to check the woman's pulse.

"She's unconscious," he told the other two, narrowing his eyes in concentration as he felt the vein throb strongly against his fingers.

"Brilliant," Ron said dryly, "so now what?"

Pansy pried the wand out of the woman's tight grip. She bent over and tapped it against the chains encircling her feet. With a _click_ they unlocked and rattled onto the floor.

She tossed the wand to Harry.

He caught it and nodded; his eyes remained narrowed and hard as he stared back into her sunken eyes.

"Now, Ron," he replied with a pang of guilt as he dropped Pansy's gaze and glanced at the unconscious woman, "we get answers."

"And on our terms," Pansy added quietly. Harry looked at her again, but she had dropped her gaze to the floor as she hugged herself protectively.

Standing before them, he realized, was not the Pansy Parkinson he had last seen in the Great Hall of Hogwarts. This young woman was more than that, yet less than that, too. She was broken, a shade of what she used to be.

Now unchained, and not knowing what compelled him to do it, Harry stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. The skin beneath his touch stiffened and grew taut with apprehension. She wasn't used to a gentle touch.

"I'll get you out of here," he promised. "I will, I swear."

Her lower lip began to tremble. She pushed his hand off of her and backed away, shivering as she tightened her arms around her.

Ron cleared his throat, a bit unnerved by the exchange as he twirled the wand between his long fingers. "So, tally-ho?"

"Tally-ho.

**:::**

They met no resistance as, one-by-one, the three prisoners crept through the door at the top of the stairs leading down into the basement. The door lead out into a crowded hallway that was as poorly lit as the prison below, so cluttered and unkempt that it reminded Harry of the morbid Shrieking Shack and, in turn, every memory associated with the place. As his footsteps creaked against the floorboard, he thought of a ghostly wail echoing around the walls as its owner tried to find an escape.

Pansy lifted her hand and brushed her fingers lightly across his shoulder. If he didn't have every one of his senses alert, he wouldn't have felt it.

"To the left," she said, her voice barely a whisper at all, "at the end of the hall, is the sitting room."

He looked over his shoulder and quirked an eyebrow at her. A silent question.

She turned her face from him, and he saw a scar running along her neck; whether she meant him to see it or not was unclear to him, but the action itself spoke volumes.

There would be enemies waiting there.

As they crept further down the hall, he heard them.

"—to dress an effin wound? Mulciber! Nott! Go see what's taking her so long!"

Goosebumps erupted across Harry's arms. _Death Eaters! _It should have been obvious—but what did they want _Pansy_ for? He threw a look over his shoulder at her and Ron. Ron nodded grimly.

Harry tightened his grip on the slim piece of wood that stood between them and death.

There were at least three of them in the room. If he could take them by surprise, he might have a chance to disarm them and gain the upper hand…

Pansy's fingers touched his shoulder again, distracting him. She held her hand out, her lips parted slightly as she breathed shallowly.

_She wanted the wand?_

Ron shook his head furiously over her shoulder. _"Are you mad?"_ he mouthed.

Harry stared into Pansy's imploring eyes that were wide with urgency. The sound of footsteps echoed around the empty house as two pairs of feet made their way across the sitting room for the hall. When he hesitated another second, she shook her head in annoyance.

"_Imperio,"_ she hissed.

Brilliant.

Harry flicked the wand as the first Death Eater appeared. A faint _puff_ of air and his curt expression cleared into a mask of unconcern.

"Move yeh a great lump!" the other snapped, shoving him out of the way and stepping into the hall after him. "What the—"

Another quiet rush of air and he was Imperiused too.

The two of them, blinking stupidly, walked stiffly down the hall towards the three prisoners crouched along the wall and handed over their wands soundlessly.

Ron took one and Pansy took the other, and once they were empty-handed, the two continued down to the basement, where they would join the woman in the dark.

There was no sound of conversation, nothing giving away any more evidence of more Death Eaters in the room, as they continued slowly down the hall.

Harry paused right before the entrance into the room and listened to the steady breathing of the its only occupant.

Behind him, he felt—rather than heard—Pansy take a shuddering breath. He touched her arm with his free hand, and then looked over his shoulder at them.

He held up his fingers: Three, two, one.

He ducked around the wall and with a _bang!, _and a shout of furious pain, announced their entrance.

His spell had knocked the Death Eater clear off his feet and hard onto the floor, where he sat gasping and clutching his arm to his chest.

"Potter!" he spat with surprise, rolling on the hardwood floor as he struggled to recompose himself. "How did you—" he hissed, "—get free?"

Harry looked down at him coolly. "Rookwood," he growled. "I should have known."

Pansy suddenly surged forward with fire in her eyes, and with a shriek brought her wand streaking down towards the Death Eater. He let out an inhuman shriek of his own as he started to writhe at their feet.

"NO!" Harry shouted, jumping towards her and pinning her arm down. "Pansy! Stop!"

She struggled to throw him off her, trying to keep her wand trained on the Death Eater, but Harry had broken the spell and so Rookwood now lay panting for air on the frayed rug, released from her Cruciatus Curse.

She was still staring through empty eyes down at the shaking Death Eater. Harry shook her roughly by the shoulders. "Pansy!" Her eyes slid to his face, and as she focused on him again, she let out a dry sob and crumpled to the floor at his feet.

Harry and Ron exchanged horrified stares.

Ron turned to look at Rookwood, who had rolled up onto his knees, still trembling slightly from the effects of the Unforgivable curse. He brought his own wand up and trained it on the Death Eater's face.

"Start talking," he demanded, "or so help me we'll end this now. What do you want from us? What are you planning?"

Rookwood spat out a mouthful of blood courtesy of the lip he had nearly bitten through to keep from crying out while at the mercy of Pansy. "I don't like to leave a job unfinished," he snarled, his eyes roaming from their faces down to Pansy's shuddering form. She brought up shaking hands to cover her ears, as if trying to block out the sound of his voice.

A monster. He was a monster.

Harry felt pure disgust boiling up inside of him as he looked down at Rookwood's pockmarked and oily face.

"What job have you left unfinished that involves _us_?" he gritted out, clenching the wand more tightly in his hand.

Rookwood smiled widely, revealing his bloodstained teeth.

"Oh, you'll find out soon enough, Potter…"

Ron glared at him furiously. "What the bloody he—" his demand was cut off in an unpleasant gargling noise, and before Harry could shout, he slumped forward and collapsed against the ground next to Pansy, who clutched her throat to scream in fear.

Harry turned, his wand flying up to defend himself from their attacker—

But everything was already black.

**:::**

**E/N: **Sorry. I don't know how to end a chapter without a cliffhanger. Heck, I don't even know how to end a chapter, period. *Sigh* Has NOT been a good day. And sorry for the late update. And for how lame it was. I rushed to finish this, cos it's 8 minutes past my bed time and I'm just feeling…off.

Meh. Review! :3


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